


Definitely a Thing

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-typical language, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, season 15 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Grif tries to convince Simmons that there is, in fact, such a thing as a banjulele.





	Definitely a Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was honestly just fun to write. I googled to see what Banjo/Ukulele duet sounded like (for SCIENCE), and discovered the banjulele. I thought it was perfect for Grif and Simmons to argue about, so here we are xD
> 
> Spoilers for Season 15 up to before Episode 6.

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh huh.”

“No way.”

“Yeah way.”

Grif can _feel_ Simmons glaring at him through his helmet. He doesn’t believe a word coming out of Grif’s mouth, though he can’t imagine why.

“You’re not just fucking with me, like when you told me _Game of Thrones_ was real, are you?” Simmons asks.

Grif grins, remembering how excited Simmons had been (“Man I wanna go visit!”). And the look on his face when he realized _Game of Thrones_ was not, in fact, real. Probably why Simmons is reluctant to trust him. Worth it.

“Scout’s honor, Simmons,” Grif says, holding up his hand in what he hopes is the proper salute.

It isn’t. Grif can tell by Simmons’s exasperated sigh.

“I don’t know,” Simmons says, tilting his head back skeptically. “It just sounds made up.”

“So does a giant conspiracy where the Reds and Blues aren’t actually at war and are just cannon fodder for some fucked up military project,” Grif points out. “And I was totally right about _that_.”

“Fuck.” Simmons looks down at his feet, only to lift his head right away to glare at Grif again. “Wait, there’s no way you knew about that! No one knew about that!”

“Tucker did,” Grif replies with a yawn. This argument is lasting way longer than he wanted.

“Oh yeah,” Simmons says. He looks away for a moment, taps his foot. Contemplating.

It’s exhausting just _thinking_ about what goes on in Simmons’s head, and Grif yawns again. He’s about to go find a place to pass out when Simmons demands, “Prove it.”

Grif lets out a sigh that lasts at least thirty seconds. Leave it to this fucking nerd to ask for _proof_ …

“Whatever you say, Simmons,” Grif says. “The sooner we end this argument, the sooner I can take a nap.”

“But you just woke up!” Simmons exclaims.

Turning his back to Simmons, Grif starts to head back inside. There’s a moment’s hesitation before he hears the clomp of Simmons’s boots as the maroon soldier begins to follow him.

“Simmons, talking to you is so tiring, I’m surprised I haven’t fallen into a coma,” Grif says over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, talking to you is so frustrating, I’m surprised I haven’t short-circuited,” Simmons retorts.

“Simmons—” Grif pauses to pull open the hatch leading into the base “—I think you short-circuited long before you were a cyborg.”

“Yeah, well, um,” Simmons sputters, “You were in a coma long before you were born!”

“Great comeback, Simmons,” Grif snorts.

“Shut up, Grif,” Simmons grumbles.

They make their way to their living quarters in silence. They’ve been sharing a room since Donut burned down their new bases. Hadn’t even lasted a year…

Oh well, it’s not like they used both rooms when they had them. Simmons, even though he always started out in his own room, somehow ended up in Grif’s bed every night (“Grif, are you awake?” “Just get in the fucking bed, Simmons, so I can go to sleep.”). Now that they share a room, Grif has back the hour of beauty rest he missed every night waiting for that nerd.

Not that he can’t sleep without Simmons there. Grif can sleep anywhere. Anytime. He just knows Simmons is too awkward to join him if he’s asleep. That’s all.

Once they get into their room, Grif pulls his helmet off and chucks it onto the bed. Simmons crosses his arms and leaves his helmet on. Stubborn ass.

Unearthing the datapad from the pile of dirty laundry closest to the bed, Grif shuffles over to Simmons. Typing something into the datapad, Grif sighs.

“Look, Simmons, you’re going to have to take your helmet off if you want to see this,” Grif insists.

“I can see through my visor just fine,” Simmons scoffs.

“But I want you to _really_ look at it, Simmons,” Grif says. “I want you to see with your own two eyes that I’m right.”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Simmons groans. He detaches his helmet and places it on the bedside table. “Let’s see it, then.”

Grif holds out the datapad. Simmons snatches it away and turns his back to Grif, using his finger to scroll through the information on the screen.

“Dude,” Simmons says.

“Dude,” Grif agrees.

“No fucking way.” Simmons sounds both fascinated and disappointed. Grif bites back a grin.

“That, my friend,” Grif says, “is a banjulele—part banjo, part ukulele.”

Simmons is speechless. He continues jabbing at the datapad, green eye darting back and forth, red eye glowing, taking in every possible bit of information on banjuleles.

Grif can barely handle how much of a dork Simmons is being. It’s… freaking adorable. Annoying. Grif meant annoying.

“My work here is done,” Grif declares.

Three minutes later he’s shucked his armor, trading it for a pair of boxers and his favorite hoodie. Flopping down onto the bed, he shoves his helmet to the floor and closes his eyes.

He hears Simmons removing his armor as well. There’s a _thud_ followed by a “Dammit!” as Simmons trips on what Grif can only assume is another pile of dirty laundry. Muttering something about murder, Grif can hear Simmons yanking drawers open and slamming them shut as he searches for his pajamas. Grif doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that Simmons chose the plaid ones. They’re his favorite.

The bed sinks a little as Simmons joins him. Grif can hear him, still playing on the datapad, muttering to himself.

“Grif there’s a video!” Simmons cries.

“Simmons, I bet there’s loads of videos,” Grif says. “It’s an ancient instrument.”

Simmons ignores him. There’s a _tap_ then a pause as the video loads.

When the music starts, Grif is instantly reminded of the old black and white films his mom used to download, the ones where no one speaks, where the story depends on action, facial expressions, and music. He remembers watching Kai “dance” to the crackling music, whining when he refused to participate. Sometimes his mom would dance too.

Grif takes a deep breath. _Bring it back to the present_.

“Vaudeville,” Grif says, keeping eyes shut.

“What?” Simmons asks.

“Kind of reminds me of vaudeville,” Grif explains.

“Oh.” Simmons pauses. “I didn’t know you, uh, were into vaudeville.”

_I didn’t know you knew what vaudeville is_ , is what Simmons doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to. Grif might be offended, if he had the energy. But he’s used to the others assuming his laziness translates into stupidity. Why break character?

“I’m not _into vaudeville_ , Simmons,” Grif says, “That’s nerd stuff.”

“It’s nice,” Simmons says.

“It’s no Grateful Red,” Grif sighs, “But it’s tolerable, I guess. If that’s what you’re into.”

“You’re still sold on that name?” Simmons asks.

“What? It’s perfect!”

“It’s got to be the dumbest fucking name of all time,” Simmons snorts.

“Whatever, Simmons, you’re just jealous you weren’t invited to join the band,” Grif says. He does feel a bit guilty about that, but they aren’t looking for a banjoist. Christ. And if you were to enter Simmons into a sing-off with Carolina… Carolina would win.

Because she’s. So good.  

“I still think the banjo is highly underrated,” Simmons grumbles.

Grif doesn’t think so. But the fact that the nerd taught himself how to play— _way_ too much effort, if you ask him—impresses Grif. Not that he’ll ever tell Simmons that.

“Maybe if you played the banjulele, we’d reconsider,” Grif says instead.

“Really?”

“No. What kick ass rock band features a banjo-ukulele hybrid?”

“The Grateful Red?” Simmons attempts.

“Simmons, don’t be a kiss ass.”

Simmons sighs and turns up the volume on the datapad.


End file.
